


suburban gothic

by TheSpaceCoyote



Series: Huxloween 2019 [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Married Life, Minor Violence, Romance, Serial Killer Armitage Hux, Serial Killer Kylo Ren, Suburbia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 10:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21160340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: Hux's beloved husband is due to arrive home any moment now.He must get things ready.





	suburban gothic

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of an odd idea I've been nursing for a few months now, with Hux and Kylo as a lovely suburban couple with a dark secret life. Kudos to goth_gunnywolf on Twitter for helping me really flesh this out!
> 
> This is for Huxloween Day 24: "Cannibalism."
> 
> Enjoy :)

After three o’clock every day Hux draws the white curtains in the living room open, letting the rays of pink afternoon light filter in through the large, clean window. At this hour the sun isn’t too intense, and won’t wilt the house plants decorating the quaint little space nor uncomfortably heat up the cream carpeting that covers the floor. Hux likes to ensure that the temperature in the house remains fairly ambient, so that he doesn’t have to turn on the air conditioner to keep things cool during the day. Though as the season shifts from late summer into Hux’s favorite season—fall, with its brisk air and crisp, auburn leaves—that issue will gradually resolve itself. 

For now, since the days still linger a little on the warm side, Hux keeps the curtains open and lets the waning sunlight filter peacefully through as he bustles about, finishing up the list of chores he’d scribbled into his planner earlier in the day. He waters the plants and wipes dust from the knick-knacks on the mantel as well as the shelves that hold all his favorite books, ranging from the romance novels his husband bought him for his birthday to the medical textbooks left over from college. After that he vacuums, making sure to get those harder to reach spots behind the armchair and beneath the coffee table. Finally, Hux turns to the window, spraying it down with cleaner before wiping the thin layer of grime away with a squeaky cloth. 

The window looks out onto the backyard, providing a nice view whenever Hux takes afternoon tea in his armchair, book opened onto his lap. He likes to watch the shadows play on the emerald grass and the rustling leaves of the peach trees, growing as the sun descends in the sky, bathing the world around it in a calming shade of red before vanishing.

Unfortunately, Hux can’t relax this afternoon, not that he doesn’t want to. In his philosophy, he feels a good amount of rest is just as vital as a proper work ethic, but he still has to stick to his daily schedule when it requires his attention. Besides, the recipe for pot roast takes a good amount of prep as well as several hours to cook, and Hux would be loath to make his husband wait for dinner. So once he finishes up with the chores in the living room he returns to the kitchen where the meat sits thawing in the sink. 

Hux has made pot roast so often the recipe’s permanently etched into his mind. After cranking on the oven and leaving it to preheat, he makes short work of the carrots and onions, stripping them of their skins and dicing them into exact pieces. A light blush dusts Hux’s cheeks as he sweeps the chopped vegetables into a corner of the cutting board—his husband always compliments him on the cleanliness and precision of his knife cuts. It’s one of the many household skills that he takes great pride in perfecting. 

After that he rubs the fully thawed meat down with his special spice blend, humming a little tune to himself as he does. He delights in the feeling of raw meat beneath his fingers—the fatty fibers firm but yielding, like a malleable massage ball. It certainly has a similar effect. Overall, cooking dinner has always helped calm Hux down after a long day of chores. Even if it's technically more work, it’s relaxing work. Not to mention, the pleased expression on his husband’s face, when he tucks into that first forkful of melt-in-your-mouth tender roast, is always worth the effort. 

Hux feels lucky. His husband’s hard work affords him the highest quality of meat. 

He browns the vegetables and meat together before deglazing the pot with a gush of cooking wine. He takes a coy sip from the bottle, licking the red droplet from his lips as he scrapes the dregs of meat and veggies from the side of the pot. The meat rejoins the pot soon after, followed by a healthy flood of fatty homemade stock. He tips the vegetables back into the broth, stirring until they bob evenly around the meat, before covering the pot up and sliding it into the oven. Hux flicks open his phone, thumbing away messages from Phasma and their next-door neighbors, who are asking about whether he and his husband plan to attend next weekend’s dinner party. He lets the invite sit, still chewing on his answer. Of course, Hux would love to—but it all depends on his husband’s schedule. He tends to take very unusual hours. 

He sets the timer on his phone and places it back in his pocket. Hands on his hips, Hux looks around the kitchen, trying to think of something to do in the three hours it’ll take for the roast to cook. There’s rose bushes in the backyard that need trimming, fresh handmade soaps for his online store that need to be removed from their molds and left to cure, not to mention the second load of laundry—but those are all tasks that could be completed later in the evening, or even tomorrow. He rubs his chin. What’s something he could do right now to pass the time? 

Hux snaps his fingers.

Of course. _ Dessert_. His husband isn’t big on sweets, but even he won’t say no to one of Hux’s famous orange creamsicle icebox cakes. 

By the time Hux has slid the pan—filled to the brim with alternating layers of homemade whipped topping, vanilla wafers, and orange slices—into the refrigerator, the sun is already dipping well beneath the trees ringing the backyard. Streaks of bright, ruby red play across the sky, almost overwhelming the other shades of purple and gold—an unusual sight, but a beautiful one nonetheless. Hux takes a moment to admire it, watching the sun until it vanishes for good behind the largest of the peach trees, before checking the tenderness of the roast. It’s not quite there, but close. 

He hopes his husband won’t be long. 

Finally, with little else to do, Hux decides to freshen up for dinner. In the bedroom he folds the clothes he wears for housework and cooking into the laundry hamper, producing a fresh outfit from the wardrobe. Nothing fancy—just a clean collared shirt and a nice pair of slacks. He leaves them neatly spread out on the bed, not wanting them wrinkled. 

The hiss of the shower and warmth of the water makes him sigh. He leaves the bathroom door open both so the room won’t overheat and so he’ll be able to hear his husband if he comes home. As Hux works shampoo into his hair, he briefly imagines what would happen if he interrupted his shower—sliding those powerful arms around him as he pressed his equally as naked body against Hux’s. It’s something they’ve done before on rare occasions, and the thought sends a spark of arousal through Hux’s belly that nearly has him grasping for his sudsy cock, but he resists. While he does have the time now, he would far rather wait to feel his _ husband’s _ broad, strong hand wrap around his cock instead. Better to be rewarded for a job well done than give in to any self-congratulatory urges. 

Hux does, however, make sure to scrub between his legs with the last little sliver of his favorite, homemade rosemary-lavender soap. If the night does trend that way, then he wants to ensure every inch of him is ready for his husband. 

Hux spends an extra fifteen minutes primping in the bathroom after his shower, blowing his hair into a dry and fluffy mop before lightly combing it back into his usual coif. He forgoes the hard gel, remembering his husband’s preference for a light spritz of hairspray instead. A couple of ginger hairs have sprung up on his upper lip and jawline since his morning shave, so Hux deftly cleans them away until his skin is as fresh and smooth as a newly plucked peach. Finally satisfied with his appearance, he slips on his shirt and slacks and settles into a nice, comfortable pair of loafers. 

Down the stairs, through the living room, back into the kitchen. The lights he left on are all on and those he left off still keep the rest of the house bathed in darkness. No husband yet. Hux checks his phone. Not even a text—he usually texts when he finishes his work. Perhaps he’s just being held up. 

Hux checks the roast one more time, and, finding it fork tender, decides to take it out of the oven and leave it to rest on the stovetop. He’s stirring the thick broth inside the pot and nibbling on a couple of the floating carrots for taste and texture, when he suddenly hears the front door open and shut with a _ slam _ loud enough to rattle the picture frames in the foyer. 

“Honey?” Hux says without moving from the stovetop, or even looking away from the cooking roast as he basts it with spoonfuls of broth. “Is that you?”

He hears footsteps clump across the living room carpet, but no response. Hux decides to call again.

“Honey?”

Still only footsteps. Hux raps the spoon against the side of the pot and sets it aside with a slight frown. Something creeps on the back of his neck, making him conscious of the complete silence in the house apart from the _ thump-thump _ of heavy feet dragging against the floor, until even those come to a halt. Eyebrows pitching up, Hux looks away from the roast to glance over his shoulder. 

A man stands in the doorway to the kitchen. He’s hulking, shoulders and chest broadened by hard muscle that looks roughly hewn out of his flesh. Wild black hair frames his face, some of the strands stuck to his forehead with sweat. He wears a thin white singlet tucked into black jeans and a pair of heavy, muddied boots. The man looks as if he’s spent the entire day slaving away at some manual labor job, like construction—or maybe gravedigging. 

Maybe something even worse. 

For he’s not just soiled with sweat and grime. _ Blood_—rich, ruby blood, the color of hard candy—splatters him from tip to toe, splashed across his face and arms and soaked into his clothes, flecking the linoleum floor beneath him and trailing off through the carpet into the darkness of the hallway. It’s _ everywhere_, like the man has splashed around in a great puddle of it, smeared it on his skin and raked it through his hair. 

From black pits of eyes he scours Hux all over, blocking the only exit from the kitchen, a mad gleam the last gasp of light in their depths. 

Hux turns sharply and braces his arms against the countertop, the tile edge digging into his lower back. He watches the man take one step into the kitchen, then another, then another The impact of each boot rattles through the linoleum and rumbles up through Hux’s heart, sending it leaping into his throat. The man stops and blinks placidly, like a poised predator about to strike. For a moment, a breath, a heartbeat—neither of them move.

Then Hux smiles.

“You’re a little late, my pet,” he coos, pushing off the counter and crossing to the doorway, loafers clicking softly against the floor. “But don’t fret. Dinner’s still hot and ready for you.”

The man grunts in response and jerks his head, flicking strands of damp hair off his forehead. He doesn’t move, letting Hux come to him. Once he’s close, Hux’s hands find broad shoulders like they’re drawn to them, eager to feel their strength. But first, Hux brushes away a bloody chunk of some sort of viscera stuck to his shirt. “Kylo,” he tuts, checking the rest of his clothes for more. “Looks like a messy job tonight. Did they fight you?” 

“A bit.” Kylo’s voice is a little hoarse. Hux tamps down the urge to get some ginger tea with honey brewing. “Mostly this is ‘cause I got ‘em in the throat.” Kylo clicks his tongue as he draws a line under his chin. 

Hux hums in understanding and rubs the bloody fabric between two fingers, taking in the damage soaking into Kylo’s shirt and jeans. 

“Arterial spray, then. Well, it’s nothing I can’t take care of.” Lemon juice and a little meat tenderizer will bring even the worst bloodstains out. Hux’s learned all the tips and tricks that work best by now. And if not, well, he was meaning to go clothes shopping for Kylo anyway. He knows those singlets of his are easy to dispose of and don’t get in the way of his work, but if they’re going to the dinner party next weekend Kylo will need to wear something a little more elegant. 

But the state of his clothes seems to be the last thing on Kylo’s mind. Instead of standing still and letting Hux examine him for more rips and stains—perhaps even wounds, sometimes the prey is that violent—he surges forward and gathers Hux up into his arms. Hux gasps at the strong squeeze of his husband’s arms, nearly swooning when Kylo pushes his back up against the wall and presses their mouths together. 

Kylo’s always amorous after a successful hunt, with his blood pumping and animal urges on fire. Hux moans as Kylo slots a thigh between his legs, pushing him to tiptoes. He can’t help himself—Kylo can take him apart in this state and Hux would let him, let Kylo overwhelm and consume him until he was nothing but a mess of arousal on the kitchen floor, dinner forgotten. 

“Missed you,” Kylo grunts, licking at the taste of Hux on his lips, savoring it, when they pull apart. Hux’s heart flutters in his chest at the sight and chases his mouth, dragging Kylo back into another kiss, so much more hungry than the first that Hux finds he doesn’t care whether Kylo’s body pressed up against his is staining his cleanly pressed clothes with blood. 

“You could’ve texted,” Hux says when he has free reign over his mouth again, though only because Kylo’s moved on to sucking kisses against his throat. “You...you usually text me on the way back from a hunt…”

“Had my hands full. Sorry.” Usually Hux would bristle at the insincere, one-note apology, but it’s hard to feel anything but pure, consuming lust for his husband when Kylo has him pinned and pleasures him like this. 

“You know,” Kylo whispers as he smooths his lips up the side of Hux’s throat, to his ear, “There were two tonight. One, I didn’t finish off yet. Big enough for weeks of meat and months of your soap.” Kylo drops his voice impossibly lower, so sultry it could be made of silk. “I dragged them to the basement and chained them up so I wouldn’t miss dinner.”

“Oh?” Hux shivers at the wet kiss Kylo presses against his earlobe. “Will you...go to finish up now, then?” He tries not to feel too disappointed by Kylo cutting their fun in the kitchen short and going without dinner—after all, his work always comes first.

But Kylo doesn’t push away from him, leave him with jelly legs and a bitten neck against the paisley wallpaper. Hux feels a soft, satisfied drag of breath against his skin as Kylo smirks against the side of his head. 

“I will eventually. But I want you to come with me.” Kylo’s fingers curl into Hux’s belt loops, pulling him closer, until Hux’s clothed groin grinds even more firmly against the angle of his thigh. “I need your quick, dextrous fingers for this one. I need you to make it _ last_.”

Hux fights the shiver that runs up his spine, telling him to _ go _ already, give in to the many urges twisting in his belly. It’s been a while since he’s personally butchered a kill, and the thought alone already whets his considerable appetite. 

“I will, my pet, I will,” Hux promises, “but you need to recoup your strength.” He catches Kylo’s chin between his fingers, rubbing the prickle of beard. “Let’s eat first. After all, I went through the trouble of making your favorite."

Kylo gives him that same slow blink from before, that same predator’s gaze. For a moment, Hux wonders if Kylo’s going to ignore his insistence and resist the delicious smells wafting through the kitchen to keep ravishing Hux against the wall. But after a beat, he relents, lowering his thigh from between Hux’s legs and freeing up some space between them. Hux’s almost whimpers at the loss, but knows if he did that, Kylo wouldn’t be able to resist him. 

The pot roast is beautiful. Kylo compliments him on it throughout the dinner, and though his words are inelegant and simple, they make Hux blush each time. They don’t rush the meal, playing a little game of footsie under the table as they talk about their respective days. It’s comfortably intimate, to indulge in a little private time. Hux knows that Kylo feels the same way he does—that every moment they spend together is special, meant to be savored rather than scarfed down. 

They leave the dishes in the sink for later, and Hux covers the remains of the pot roast and slides it into the fridge. He remembers the icebox cake still sitting in the freezer, but stalls bringing it up for now as Kylo holds out his hand—a glitter of eager, sinister excitement in his glorious dark eyes. 

Hux laces their fingers together, giving his husband’s hand a loving squeeze as Kylo leads him towards the basement. It can wait. The cake could use another hour or so to properly set, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments! Let me know what you thought of this strange little AU. 
> 
> Hit me up on [Tumblr](http://thethespacecoyote.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heir_of_breath7/).


End file.
